Photo by F. Berkeley Smith
CHRISTIANE MENDELYES AS ROSALIE
“And you, my big rabbit!” cried Marcelle, addressing the poet with the air of a judge; “what have you to say for yourself in apology for being late?” The poet sighed, ran his fingers through his long hair, hung his black hat upon a convenient peg, and, drawing up his chair, replied, wearily: “Would that I might join Sylvia and her nymphs and drink and be merry by the moon and not by the hour!”
“Flûte!” replied Marcelle. “Don’t you suppose they had the best of regular appetites in those days and quarreled if the soup was late? Allons, mangez, mes enfants, and be grateful that the sun shines and we have enough for to-day.”
After déjeuner the clown and the poet played shuttlecock and quoits in the garden. The poet met ignominious defeat, for the aged gentleman, whose life had been spent on the sawdust, was a dead shot with a quoit and as agile as a weasel. Later we all went into the villa for a song, the clown playing Marcelle’s accompaniments upon a melodeon. Some of its keys emitted cries of distress, and this furnished the clown with an impromptu pantomime that sent Marcelle into screams of laughter. So the afternoon passed with songs, Madeira and cigarettes.
If the garden was interesting, the interior of the little villa was none the less so, for it was a miniature museum of souvenirs.
The walls of the small salon were covered with pastels. There were original drawings and bas-reliefs by celebrated men. Pen-and-ink sketches, caricatures, charcoals and oils, each one bearing a little message of regard and friendship to Marcelle, lined the walls of the narrow stairs leading to the dainty boudoir.
Even the kitchen, shining in its well-polished battery of copper saucepans, held its art treasures.
It was nearly dusk when the poet and I took our leave of our charming hostess and the “Villa Polichinelle.”
The clown had been obliged to hurry away earlier to attend some affairs preliminary to the night’s performance.